


Waving fields of wheat and wolves.

by kheradihr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Language of Flowers, Stiles unknowingly courting a werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kheradihr/pseuds/kheradihr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her deathbed, Stiles' mom left him with a secret that would save everyone he loved. He forgot and lost it. This is his story of finding it and making it his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waving fields of wheat and wolves.

His mother told him secrets during his visits to the hospital. She would sit up – it was the only time the nurses would tolerate it – and talk. More and more as it neared The Time. A lot of it he forgot, too young and unknowing to keep the meaning of, between and behind the words she dropped into his ears like seeds.

One thing he remembered was the day she was too tired to sit up. She cupped his face in her too-frail hands and kissed the spot between his eyebrows.

“Your heart is a beautiful thing, Genim, green and strong. When it matures it will be golden and all that you love will find sustenance and shelter in it.”

Young Stiles shivered when she said that. It felt like a portent or omen and he was really scared but it was his mom and she was _dying_. Nothing could be scarier than that so he held onto the hope and assurance in her voice.

She took a turn for the worse a few weeks later, the serene strength that held the family together fading until she was gone. Stiles no longer heard her voice and for a time he could not even remember the thing she told him that he knew he should never forget. But he did, buried under his grief and confusion and fear he let it stay. It was too hard to hold onto it while trying to remember to just breathe.

That was when the anxiety attacks came. The world closed in, all the time echoing condemnations told him his mother was dead and he forgot her last gift to him. For him.

They got worse, building slowly like tectonic plates pushing against each other with him in between, wondering when they would slip and he fell into the mantle. Sometimes when the house was too quiet and the ghosts of his mother’s smile gave false light to the shadows Stiles wondered what it would be like to fall into the magma. He never told anyone but he always hoped that the magma was warm like his mother’s hugs. Then he wouldn’t feel so bad about letting everything go.

The plates shifted, a fault opened and he fell, blacking out in the hallway trying to flee the cheerful sun shining through the kitchen, illuminating the spot where his mother washed dishes. There was no magma waiting for him, just the dark sludge of everything clinging to him, sucking him deep into the mire. Struggling only made him sink faster. With a relinquishing exhalation he gave up and let the pitch take him.

Rain drenched him as something thin and barbed slapped his face. He choked awake, flailing in the mud as tiny saplings mimicked his dance. He sat inside a circle of saplings as a deluge drenched the field surrounding him. Lightning illuminated the waving green grains as thunder rolled. It oddly sounded like laughter. Stiles scrambled to his feet and looked around and around and around before falling flat on his back, the saplings leaning close as if concerned.

He found it. He found the field his mom told him about. He didn’t lose it – it was waiting for him! Bursting into laughter for the first time since his mom got sick, he rolled in the mud enjoying the storm. He couldn’t wait until it was sunny. He wanted to explore so much. Lungs hurting from laughing, he sat up and looked at the saplings. They were nothing but thin sticks with leaves now but he imagined them as a huge tree easily. He liked them. They made him think of his mother and how she touched the tops of the herbs in her herb box murmuring each plant’s name. He sat next to one and watched the storm until he woke up.

Time passed, Stiles grew, his field changed.

He liked exploring his field. Here he didn’t need Adderall, the field provided plenty of stimuli for his brain to absorb and center him. He found cardinals nesting in his mother’s tree, rabbits that denned underneath the roots. When it – at some point the eighteen or so saplings twined around each other to form a gigantic tree – grew big enough he climbed it and surveyed all that was him.

Patches were making transition from green to gold, mostly along the paths of footprints Scott left behind. He was his best friend and Stiles had to look out for him or else Scott would always be in trouble. That referred to non-Stiles-initiated trouble, of course.

As more time passed, the fields turned more and more golden and stiles recognized a new path in the wheat. It didn’t belong to Scott and the part of Lydia that resided here flew on the highest winds that only the birds could reach. He didn’t mind because he was content to hear her laughter from so far away. It definitely wasn’t his father because his place was that nook in Mom’s tree that was shaped like the loveseat no one sits in unless they miss Mom.

He tracked the path. It meandered along the edges of the field, not quite there enough for Stiles to recognize who it belonged to. Every time he checked it – he couldn’t find footprints at all – he felt a smile and the echo of laughter. That lasted about a week or two.

One night he was walking in the field instead of studying. He couldn’t focus and he didn’t want to risk being up all night on Adderall. His field glowed under the perpetually full moon that hung low in the sky. Sometimes he changed the moon’s phases but he preferred the full moon. It made his field look otherworldly. He laughed aloud at his own joke until a wolf howled in the distance. It reminded him of that mystery path tinted with laughter. The howling grew louder until his entire field thrummed with it. The howl shrieked into a scream and then everything was silent. His heart ached. He woke up.

There was no time to think about what happened to the wolf because his dad was answering the phone and talking about a body in the preserve.

***

Scott’s paths now have paw prints instead of footprints and Allison has taken residence in the upper boughs of his mom’s tree, high enough that she can be near Lydia and still be close to Scott. But that wasn’t his problem. Someone was in his field.

He first noticed when that meandering mystery path was walked for the first time in weeks. But whoever was using the path did not stay to the outer edges of the field. He – because that was what the not-Lydia, not-Mom wind told him – paralleled the paths Stiles walked. When Stiles sat at his mom’s tree, He circled around it just inside the field enough to be hidden from view.

“You know, you can introduce yourself,” Stiles called out. “I don’t bite.”

There was rustling in the wheat. Stiles shoved his fist into his mouth to squash the smile trying to burst out. He knew whoever was in the grass couldn’t decide on what to do. Despite His stealthy movements the wheat swayed back and forth betraying His movements. Stiles must have not hid the smile enough because there was a small growl before Stiles’ guest ran back to the edge of the field. When he knew the newcomer was gone he went to the spot He stood.

It was warm, a comforting thing that mixed in with the dirt evoking the scent of deep forest and fresh leather. As he traced the paw print – wolf, definitely, and big – he heard the ghost of Her laughter. That decided it for Stiles.

The first branch he left was aspen. It sat out for days untouched. Then one day after running with Scott after Allison he returned to the tree and it was gone. That night the wolf cried from moonrise to moonset. Stiles sat in between his mother’s roots wishing the wolf was close enough for a hug. Her tree whispered overhead, soothing the field.

Balm and olive were taken in three days rather than five. Their paths paralleled more but with less distance between them.

A storm came, shaking Stiles so badly he cut two branches of spruce pine, one for himself and the other for his mystery friend. For a bit, His tracks held its scent.

Things calmed down and Stiles missed his shadow. He took to wasking intricate patterns hoping to see another line veering close enough to get a sight of his mystery friend. Feeling lonely – he would never admit it to anyone but he was with Scott so smitten – he put out an acacia branch. That night there were three new voices added to Stiles’ shadow’s but no new footprints in the field.

The next morning a branch of white oak stood in his branches’ place. Stiles stared at it incredulously and then remembered. He whooped a laugh and went scrambling up his mom’s tree. Grape and dogwood would be a fun reply.

***

To be completely honest, Stiles’ didn’t expect his furry shadow to quite react _this_ way. He was pretty sure the wolf was playing. At least that’s how he read being tripped from behind and the teeth-snap chuckle-huff the wolf gave before sprinting off. Without thinking and still spitting dirt Stiles shot after Him. It was the strangest game of tag he’d ever played but it gave him glimpses of the wolf. He was big and black with very human hazel eyes that flickered out of the dominant red. Instead of following the jolt of recognition that arced through him, Stiles picked up the pace. He didn’t want the sourwolf to keep catching him.

His feet had other plans, going leaden and Stiles tumbled for yards until he landed face first in the dirt again. As he breathed dirt and wheat he heard that chuckle-huff before something scraped his back. A chorus of yips rose in the distance. The wolf howled in reply and with one last huff, returned to his pack. Clawing out what was stuck in Stiles’s back pocket, he looked at the branch of black poplar that was clearly from his mother’s tree. He sat up and looked at the tree. It was small in the distance.

He flopped back down and shouted to the sky, “How did you manage to do that?”

A faint sound of male laughter floated back in answer.

Stiles wasn’t surprised when he came to his field one morning to see Isaac standing in the middle of it like some overgrown wheat stalk. Isaac smiled tentatively in greeting, clearly unsure of his welcome. Stiles flapped a hand at him dismissively in the don’t-look-at-me-like-that-why-don’t-you-go-stare-in-Scott’s-eyes-I-have-my-own-set-of-wolfy-eyes-in-my-head way before looking over his shoulder just in case Erica was behind him read to clock him with his Jeep’s parts again.

Instead she and Boyd laughed at his paranoia from that big branch that comfortably fit two when cuddling. He stuck out his tongue, hoped Danny threw acorns at their heads while they made out and trudged out into the open field. If the pack was here then Derek had to be. Even if the sourwolf only wore fluff and pelt when he visited.

The wheat swayed with the light breeze. Stiles shut his eyes and listened. There was a slight displacement in the faint slither of the wheat. He smiled. Derek had gotten better at moving through the wheat without giving himself away. Since Stiles knew he couldn’t spin around fast enough to catch Derek, he fell diagonally, initiating his near daily game of runt-and-tackle tag. He was getting faster at reading Derek, even if he never saw him. Hopefully this instinct translated to lacrosse; he’d be untouchable if it did. Grinning, he dove backwards and right, left arm outstretched. Fur brushed the tips of his fingers.

“Got you!” he crowed. Derek circled, huffing and snorting. Stiles kicked his unseen feet in delight, meeting soft belly. Teeth snapped near his toes before a familiar weight – did Derek keep the same mass in wolf form because damn was he heavy – rested on his shins. The wheat swayed in just that way to hide Derek’s bulk. A damp black nose tipped up above the wheat and _howled_.

“Shit shit fuckshit.”

Stiles knew what that howl was in his bones; Derek was calling the pack to the hunt. Erica’s howl answered first, the glee in it making the wheat dance wildly. Then Isaac, answered from somewhere nearby with Scott – the traitor – and Boyd following. After that he couldn’t hear them at all, all gone silent running. Hunting. For him.

“Derek. Derek. Let me go.” Stiles tried to kick free but Derek only laid down. “Oh fuck, Derek I have to run or they’re going to get me before I even get off the ground. Derek, please.”

The pack howled, each voice from a different direction. Derek hummed smugly before disappearing in another direction. Stiles wasted no time rolling over before pushing himself up into a sprinter’s start. Now he had to choose: Isaac or Scott.

Erica made the decision for him, coming out of nowhere to snap at his ass. He was off before she could close her teeth around him. His wolf-sense was too tuned because of Derek; the pack had nothing on their Alpha. Isaac didn’t expect him to run directly at him, after all prey was supposed to run away from those hunting it. But Stiles wasn’t prey. He was the fox in the fields. And he knew himself the best.

Isaac yelped as Stiles thumped him between the ears while sprinting by. Boyd pivoted first, following Stiles as Scott called out and Derek answered. Whatever cursing Stiles had been doing as a protective mantra died when he shifted up his pace. The tree was safe. If he could reach the tree, he’d win. Soon the air filled, not with Lydia’s laughter now closer to Stiles’ wheat, but yips, howls and shrieks as they played. No more than a yard or three away from the tree, Stiles broke out of the wheat, only to be tackled by Scott and Isaac, Erica and Boyd barreling into him just a moment after. They rolled, fur, enthusiastic licking and nomming until Stiles felt his back fold the wrong way over the tree’s roots. Raising his head over the others’ fluff he saw Derek sitting just inside the clearing, huffing to himself.

Stiles smiled and mouthed, “Call it a tie?”

Derek’s answering smile left Stiles flushing, even more warm from the four wolves turning him into their dog bed. A sharp bark had them scrambling off him before Derek vanished into the wheat. The others followed slowly, Boyd with a friendly headbutt, Erica licking him between the eyes as revenge for Isaac, and Isaac who nuzzled away the slobber. When they disappeared into the night that Stiles hadn’t noticed setting in, he threw and arm around Scott’s shoulders.

“They’re not too awful.”

Scott shoved his nose in Stiles’ ear before trotting off.

***

It was a bad idea. It was a stupid idea. But Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling. But he couldn’t just blurt out that kind of thing, he would wake up six feet under. Isaac was really good at burying people and he was surprisingly protective of his Alpha.

“So what to do, what to do, what to _do_!”

The tree rustled, and the water willow tickled the back of his neck. He pressed a kiss to the tree.

“I love you, Mom.”

The first thing he left out for Derek was sycamore. Stiles could almost hear the huff as Derek rolled his eyes. So Stiles left out water willow, just to be sure.

He didn’t get to see Derek’s answer until he stumbled into his field, bruised and bleeding from Gerard. Finding the deepest tangle of roots, Stiles curled up and breathed. The smell of his mom’s tree kept him from sinking into the mud being created by the intermittent storm.

Of all the people to find him, it was Lydia, coming down so bare feet trod on his land. She was the one who coaxed and prodded him out of his hole. When he stood on solid ground again he saw it, a second branch of water willow next to his own. It terrified him, the meaning in the twining tendrils. More than anything it was a promise, no, a curse. But Stiles started it. Derek just answered in the few ways he knew how.

When the mess with Gerard was over, Stiles climbed the tree and selected the branch he needed. Setting it in the crude bowl he accidentally made leaving messages to Derek, Stiles breathed in its scent before finding a sunny nook in the roots to nap.

His left side was too warm. Rolling his head to the side, Stiles cracked an eye before squinting shut, the golden wheat and sun too bright. Derek slept against his side, white petals stuck in his fur like he rolled in Stiles’ branch. He probably did, Stiles realized ruefully. He would’ve loved to see Derek rolling around like a puppy. Almost as if Derek heard Stiles’ thoughts, he rolled against him more. Stiles heart beat a bit faster as he saw the branch in Derek’s mouth. Sinking his hand into Derek’s black pelt, Stiles listened to his field. It breathed, happy and full of the life that had found a place there. He took a deep breath of the Indian jasmine clinging to Derek’s fur and joined his sourwolf in dreams.

Far above the pair’s head Stiles’ Mom’s tree took in her son’s domain. It was good, golden and sturdy. It would weather the oncoming storm well.

**Author's Note:**

> While I'm not going to give you all eighteen trees, the ones Stiles and Derek use and meanings are in order are below:
> 
> • Aspen- lamentation  
> • Balm- sympathy/relief  
> • Olive- peace  
> • Spruce pine- hope in adversity  
> • Acacia- friendship  
> • White oak- independence (not in Stiles’ tree)  
> • Grape- charity, mirth  
> • Dogwood- durability  
> • Black poplar- courage  
> • Sycamore- curiosity  
> • Water willow- frankness, freedom  
> • Indian jasmine- I attach myself to you


End file.
